whisper on the wind
by perbe
Summary: There is no path, no forest, no outstretched hand groping for the way home. Only the cold moon overhead, unable to answer his questions. AU ( tw: murder/gore )


_a/n:__ for toh, who is a lovely lady. happy birthday! and also, happy halloween everyone! many thanks to alyssa for proof-reading and the title (as always, pff)._

_**. whisper on the wind**_

It is dark and cold and the woods seem to be closing in on the path. Fog rolls in, so thickly it is impossible to see where one is going. In the distance, a lone bird calls, lamenting for the mute world. The moon is bright today, far brighter than it has been for several weeks. Yet an unnatural silence reigns after that one fluting note.

The further one follows this leaf-strewn path, the more twists and turns. Surely at some point, a weary wanderer has reached down and felt the earth around him to make sure he is still on the stupid thing. And surely that same wanderer has discovered he is not, for without his noticing it, the fog has completely erased everything. There is no path, no forest, and no outstretched hand groping for the way home. Only the cold moon overhead, unable cannot answer his questions.

How the stranger must have despaired! It is so late the night has almost turned into morning, and yet it is unbearably dark. The wind is chilly, and it lifts currents of leaves into the air. They whip around and around. Perhaps the stranger feels this, too? Certainly the young girl walking towards nowhere does, for she sighs forlornly. To the stranger, she appears to be a faint shadow, barely discernible.

Does he reach towards her now? Is he calling out to her? She cannot hear what he is saying, so she moves closer. The stranger does not stir; he cannot hear her, just like how she cannot hear him. It's because her footsteps are soundless, and she fairly glides over the dying grass and fallen leaves. She supposes she looks rather graceful, and she pauses, head cocked as if she is listening to music no one else can hear. Can he see her yet? Has he formed an opinion? Does he wonder who she is? She walks closer still, so close she thinks she can hear his thoughts. And she reaches out…

( _what color are her eyes? what color is her hair? _)

Sometimes she wonders how she appears to such strangers. Maybe she looks just like any other girl, frilly ribbons and pristine complexion. She has hair which reaches her knees—quite a feat, really, and her small hands are coated with white satin gloves. Her slippers are made of silk, and at their tip is an intricate flower. When she moves, she thinks he can hear her gown sweeping leaves with it as she goes. Yes, perhaps he will think her beautiful. He may want to talk to her and he will keep talking with her and forget about the world and his life. And she will accept his compliments gracefully. He will become so drawn to her he can't bear to leave her behind, and he will save her. They could be so happy, he and she. They will bathe in sunlight every day, and when night falls, she will kiss the sleep from his eyes. He will know as many stories as there are stars in the sky, she decides. Every night, he will chant them under his breath until she falls asleep. He will love her very, very much, and he will want to see her every day.

But he could find her ugly. He could lift all that ratty hair and see the pallid skin and look full on at her pale lips and bruised eyes. He could look down and see that the finery which adorns her is tattered and discolored. The collar at her neck is fraying, and it trails strands of silk almost as long as her hair. At the top of her dress are lace ruffles which, seen from a distance, are as fine as any queen's, but upon closer inspection, are full of mysterious black specks and grass stains. His eyes will widen. He will try to step away, and all she will be able to do is go on smiling, hopeful of his stepping back into her embrace. With her heart in her throat, she will wait.

Ah, she is so close now. Too close. She can really hear his heart pounding—or is it hers? Overhead, the moon shines brighter still, as if it can sense the importance of this meeting. The entire forest holds its breath as she reaches out towards this stranger.

She knows him from a long time ago, back when the sky wasn't black, back when she didn't walk, but ran. He remembers her, too, surely, because she thinks she sees his lips curve into a smile. It doesn't matter, though, whether he remembers or not, because it's impossible to remember how intertwined their lives are—it is something which can only be recalled in the moment. A detail which they will remember halfway through their meeting, she believes. She feels herself begin to smile as well.

Before either of them knows it, they are face to face. The beautiful ugly girl and the weary stranger take each other in. He looks the same as ever, and she supposes she hasn't changed so much as to be unrecognizable. Yet they go on staring as if they've never met. Two pairs of bruised eyes meet, two lonely figures freeze, two pairs of lips open and close. There words which need to be said are impossible to voice, two strangers realize, and both of them take a step back. Her arms which were going to hug him hang limply, and some heavy object drops out of her hands. It lies on the bumpy ground. She is dimly aware of how it glints in the moonlight.

He walks towards her, having regained his confidence. "Alyss."

( _she shares this name with her sister, but she is the opposite of that girl. nevertheless, they are more alike than they seem_ )

"You came after me." Those words hang in the air, more a question than a statement. She's shaking, she realizes, and despite how imploringly this man looks at her, she remains rooted in place. Alyss is about to say more, but the cold permeates so deep it freezes her lungs as well, and it's all she can do to breathe.

"I had to," Jack says simply.

Alyss barely finds the strength to pick up the object she dropped. Her hands won't stop shaking when she wipes it with the folds of her dirty white dress. Jack doesn't notice; he's too busy spreading a cloak on the ground. After smoothing it for the umpteenth time, the man steps back to survey his work. Evidently pleased with what he finds, he sits down and beckons for her to do the same. Out of instinct, she walks towards him. He wraps an arm around her, and she nestles into his chest. Together, they look up at the stars.

"Remember when you taught me their names?"

Jack's perpetual smile only widens. "Of course I do, you silly girl. Do you still remember them?"

"That one is Aries," Alyss says. "It's a goat."

"A ram would be more accurate."

She looks at him sharply. "The details don't matter as long as you know the story."

"Do you?" He looks at her, too, shifting his position so he can comfortably lean against a tree. Then he pulls her closer to him, brushing her forehead with his lips. "It was so long ago even I'm starting to forget."

"I do," she insists, "I can prove it. Aries was the _goat_ that carried Phrixus and Helle to Colches. Helle fell off halfway, and Hellespont was named after her."

They are silent for a while. At one point, she starts shivering in earnest (or maybe it's the shaking of her hands has spread to her entire body) so he tells her to stand up and he dusts the cloak off and wraps it around her shoulders. Underneath the smell of dirt is a faint hint of home. And though the fabric is torn in several places, Alyss clings to it. She breathes in as deeply as she dares. How does he not hear how loudly her heart is beating, or see how desperately her hands clench at the object in her hands.

Finally, she says, "I really love you."

He knows already, but he goes along with it. She notices again how when he smiles, his eyebrows arch upwards just so, and he tosses his head back. "What's with this all of a sudden?"

Her hands have stopped shaking now, and when she holds the sharp point of the gilded shears to Jack's neck, she finds she doesn't feel much of anything. Perhaps she is crying—something warm slides down her cheeks, and she can no longer see clearly. Her breaths come in little white puffs, and she has strength enough to caress the contours of Jack's cheeks with the hand which is not holding the bloodstained shears. She wants to burn his touch into her memory.

He isn't surprised, is he? Ah, but she imagines he is a little sad. That smile of his is so broken—has been broken all along. Until now, she has not understood enough to see it. Jack is not made of sunshine and stories; he is flesh and blood and he can bleed and die like anyone else. He can kill, too, like she can. Even now, so many days later, she can see the tell-tale rusty stain along the edges of his jacket. Then there is the battered cloak which a few days earlier, had belonged to Oswald. Down, down, down, she looks at the shears that glint in the moonlight. They are the ones Alice used, aren't they? That's why she's the only one who can do this. Because a short while earlier, her sister tried the same thing and failed.

She remembers the town caked with blood, remembers screaming, not caring who would find her. Alyss remembers how she ran to Alice, hoping against hope she would find her alive. And she remembers Oswald, who was perhaps the worst of all. He lay among a pile of dismantled corpses, amethyst eyes vacant, limbs splayed every which direction. A thin line of blood had been her first indicator something was terribly wrong. She had knelt down by his side and pressed her ear to his chest. That was when she had felt the dampness of his jacket, and when she ran her fingers over where his heart would be in wonder, her fingers came away red. But how could Oswald be dead? He was so strong. He always knew exactly what to do, and she had never realized how much she relied on him.

Alice.

Alyss thinks she looks exactly like her twin now. Coated in blood, her hair out of its usual elegant bun. She knows she must look as determined as Alice always was, and she is glaring so fiercely through her tears. Yes, she is crying. And she has a feeling if Jack was able to, he would have, too.

Again and again the shears fall, long after Jack is motionless on the cold forest ground. She wants to make him completely disappear; cut him into pieces so small he will have never existed. Oh god, she can't stop herself, even when she feels sick from the smell. He's still too clearly human, still too clearly Jack. Alyss is shaking again. The ground is shaking, too, and soon enough, the sky is shaking. A laugh rips from her throat, and she sits down next to the man, rocking herself back and forth.

What is she going to do now? He didn't look away, and he didn't save her, either. She will continue to follow the winding path in the forest, and he will no longer walk after her and find her on cool misty nights when the moon is unbearably bright or wrap the cloak of his dead best friend—the dead best friend he murdered—around her shoulders when she is cold.

Her hands lift to her eyes. She doesn't want to see! She can't stand it! The world is red and it smells of rust and everywhere she turns he is smiling. It hurts…why does it hurt so much? Isn't this what she's supposed to do? Alice, hugging a pair of bloody shears to her chest and Alyss, prying those shears loose and running into the forest.

Does she reach towards him now? Is she calling to him? If so, the stranger does not respond. He is following the winding path forever, and when the wind drops, he whispers to her about what they have done.


End file.
